


hell was the journey (but it brought me heaven)

by sevenimpossiblethings



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Powers, Depressed Bucky Barnes, Fall Out Boy References, M/M, Pandemics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-28
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:55:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26159137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sevenimpossiblethings/pseuds/sevenimpossiblethings
Summary: Bucky Barnes, resident of a first-floor studio apartment, has a routine: class, work, therapy. His two upstairs neighbors also have a routine. Namely, sex at noon. Every. Single. Weekday.Featuring socially-distant laundry encounters and walls as thin as Bucky's patience.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers/Sam Wilson
Comments: 26
Kudos: 94





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "invisible string," by way of thingsbeginningwithA. 
> 
> If you are my upstairs neighbors, I want to assure you that I have zero desire to have sex with you. I would, however, like to initiate a discussion about your timing. And possibly send you my therapy bill.

On Mondays and Wednesdays, Bucky blamed his meds (or his depression) (or both) for making him think a noon section was the best choice. There was no point signing up for a class he’d sleep through half the time, anyway, right? His therapist talked a lot about _setting himself up for success_ , and American History at 12:00 PM seemed like one of those Good Life Choices. 

On Fridays, he blamed his therapist’s packed schedule and the inflexibility of her other patients. 

On Thursdays, he blamed the weekly staff meeting he was required to attend, even though he only worked 15 hours a week doing remote tech support for the senior services hotline. 

And on Tuesdays…

On Tuesdays, Bucky could blame the anti-maskers in his neighborhood that made it impossible to leave the building safely between 6 AM and 9 PM, or he could blame himself. 

At 11:59 AM, he glared at his broken noise-cancelling headphones—too expensive to replace in the midst of an economy-crushing pandemic—wedged his earbuds in, and turned the volume up on “Hum Hallelujah.” At this point, he was way past the key of reason. Could you sue your neighbors for hearing loss? Would their renters’ insurance cover that? 

“I JUST WANT TO BE A PART OF THIS” Fall Out Boy shouted, as in the apartment above Bucky, a bed started creaking. Loudly. Rhythmically. 

Just as it had every weekday at noon for the past three weeks. 

Bucky didn’t live in one of those apartment buildings where everybody knew each other, like the one he’d grown up in back in Brooklyn. This was D.C. and a little brick building of only semi-depressing studios, with creaky hardwood floors and a family of centipedes that lived in the basement laundry room. Since the pandemic started, Bucky had taken to doing his laundry at 3 AM. He didn’t want to switch his boxers from washer to dryer in front of someone whose only human contact for the past five months had been their GrubHub delivery driver. The risk of small talk and judgment was too high. 

He’d had a brief conversation with the person across the hall from him a year and a half ago, when he moved in, but there was someone new there now, according to the hand-drawn card on the letterbox and the change in window decorations. The super lived on the top floor, but Bucky had only ever communicated with him via email. _Yes, the HVAC person could come on Thursday. No, Bucky hadn’t seen any mice._

The people just above him—although only “Rogers” was listed on the letterbox, in careful block handwriting—he’d run into a few times, back when he went to group in person and they went to jobs and on runs and shopped at the local farmers’ market. Once, Bucky had tried three different keys, corner store orange juice clutched in his prosthetic hand, eyes furiously fixed on his door while they collected packages piled behind him. 

They were _too attractive to be allowed_ , if you asked Bucky. Definitely too attractive to be permitted inside his building while he was just trying to unlock his fucking door. How was he supposed to be able to distinguish among his million keys (okay, four) while they were basically just an arm's length away, being… big and smiley or whatever the hell. 

And now, every day at noon, they had sex above his head. It was just… very hard not to _picture_ it. When he could hear the exact shifts of the bed and there was _nowhere else to go_. 

Wednesday: He thought longingly of shoving his bulky, aching veteran body into an individual desk that could barely fit a notebook while perky eighteen-year-olds tried not to stare. _William Howard Taft: President + SCOTUS chief (only one both)_ , he typed, pounding each individual key. Could he bill his neighbors for a replacement? He’d have to, by the time he got through this class. The G.I. Bill was already paying tuition and supplies; paying for these additional expenses was the least his neighbors could offer. 

“Bucky, what are your thoughts on the political party dynamics heading into the 1908 election?” his professor asked, popping into the previously-silent Zoom breakout room. 

_Creak. Creak. Creak_ , replied the bed upstairs. 

Thursday: Bucky had turned his computer volume up _all_ the damn way, but it didn’t matter since his supervisor was taking forever to figure out how to screenshare and _not. saying. anything._ in between. For once, Bucky would have welcomed some cheesy small talk. He made sure his microphone was muted, then half-shouted, “Gee, Chris, your point about App Store downloading times is SO INTERESTING, can you BELIEVE no one has brought this up before, I WONDER why their grandchildren are frustrated, no I DON’T know why the Democrats can’t just pick one dialing app for phone banks instead of SWITCHING EVERY WEEK.” 

But it was no use. 

The bed creaked. And creaked. And… Jesus _fuck_ he did not need this much information about his neighbors’ stamina. Or pace. Or—yeah, _none_ of it. 

Friday: Bucky stared very hard at his therapist and the new armchair she’d bought for her home office. He blinked deliberately. 

“Let’s circle back to your schedule,” she said. Her notebook was out of frame, but he knew it was sitting on her knees. “What’s working about it for you? Where are some places you’re running into issues?” 

The worst part was that they probably thought they were being quiet. Bucky never heard shouts or moans or—whatever, he wasn’t going to imagine their actual sex noises, he wasn’t a complete perv—but hearing… around their sex, the outline of it, the shadow… it was basically a _Tell-Tale Heart_ situation. (Bucky would like to thank his spring American Literature professor for that one.)

On Saturday, at an unspecified time in the afternoon, Bucky had a pleasant date with his hand, and was just a little smug that his bed only creaked _a little_. Not anything that could be heard by someone in the laundry room. 

He wasn’t sure whether to feel bad for Rogers & Boyfriend (and he had to be a boyfriend, right? Not on the mailbox, but definitely living with—and having sex with—Rogers throughout this mess of a year). On the one hand, regular weekday sex. Nice. On the other other hand… there was something a little too regimented about 12:00 weekday sex. Bucky couldn’t set his watch by it—sometimes the creaking didn’t start until 12:02—but pretty close. It’d been a while since he’d been in a relationship, sure, so maybe his opinion didn’t count. But didn’t a little spontaneity count for something these days? 

He could, occasionally, be grateful for the regularity. He wasn’t dodging their noises at random during work calls or his 4:30 accounting class or while “sleeping” (read: staring at the ceiling and debating not only the necessity of getting out of bed that day, but ever). 

Still. 

_Still_. 

Some times a guy wanted to talk about his lack of interest in pandemic Internet dating with said guy’s therapist without hearing sex-bed noises. 

After shutting his laptop and frowning at his Post-it note of goals for the next week (learn how to make a salad!), Bucky turned his glare to the ceiling. 

“I _know_ I am not involved in your sex scheduling,” he snapped. “But two o’clock would be a lot better for me!”


	2. Chapter 2

This week, Bucky was making the responsible sleep choice to do his laundry at midnight instead. And for anyone out there judging his weekly laundry habit: clean sheets at regular intervals were at least as effective as his actual anti-depressant. All of the dryers were full, but there was an empty washer, so Bucky settled in with his laptop. Say what you will about certain neighbors’ other habits: nobody left their laundry unattended overnight. 

His sheets were halfway through their wash cycle when the laundry door opened, revealing the blond one from upstairs. He stopped in the doorway, reaching in his back pocket to put a cloth mask on. He was fast, but not fast enough for Bucky to fail to notice his pink lips and strong jawline. 

Bucky slid into one corner, giving him space. 

“Hey, man.” 

“Hey,” said Bucky. 

“Guess we all have the same idea to do laundry late, huh.” 

Bucky swallowed, keeping his eyes on a random spot on the floor instead of the guy’s ass as he bent to move a load of towels into his hamper. “Yup,” he managed. 

_Are those five-fuck sheets? Do you put a towel down? Are those blue washcloths what you use to clean up after?_ he thought. And it totally wasn’t his fault. When you’ve been listening to someone have sex for over a month and are suddenly faced with their laundry, you start to wonder about the logistics of it. It was an involuntary impulse, like acid reflux. 

The guy dumped another load—this one clothes, mostly t-shirts and soft-looking pants—into the hamper. When he lifted it, his biceps—Bucky banged his prosthetic arm against the washer. Anyway, yeah. His biceps. 

“See you.” The guy jerked his chin in good bye. His hair was short, stuck up in places like someone’s hands had just been through it. 

“Uh, yeah. See you.” 

Twenty minutes later, when Bucky went to move his stuff into one of the newly-opened dryers, his heart flopped out of his chest and through the rusty drain at the center of the floor. Rogers-or-Boyfriend had left a pair of black briefs inside. 

“Fuck my _life_ ,” Bucky muttered.

Swear to God, he was going back to 3 AM laundry after this. 

At a respectable late-morning time on Saturday, Bucky prepared for battle. He combed his hair into a tight top-knot. He laced up his combat boots. He donned his favorite black mask. Using the tips of his fingers, he put the briefs (which were tiny, truly) into a brown paper bag, to which he attached a Post-it: _Dear Apt 3, You left these in the dryer last night. — Apt 1_. 

Hopefully it wasn’t creepy that he knew which apartment belonged to the blond guy. Frankly, Bucky deserved some applause for his plan to leave the bag (the briefs) outside the apartment door, instead of on the package table in the small front lobby. 

Bucky marched up the stairs, turned toward the door for Apartment 3—and almost ran directly into the blond guy’s Black boyfriend. 

“Oh, hey!” Rogers-or-Boyfriend (the other one) stepped back into his still-open doorway. He was wearing ratty grey running clothes. The landing was not sexy or romantic in the least—the carpet had probably voted for Reagan, and the less said about the single bulb, the better—but his eyes seemed to sparkle above his blue mask. 

Some people, man. Fucking unfair. 

Beneath his mask, Bucky’s cheeks burned. This was _not_ the drop-and-dash mission he’d planned. Instead, he thrust out the bag. 

“Uhhh…?” The guy scanned the Post-it, then shouted back into the apartment. “Hey, Steve, you left something!” 

Bucky nodded, starting to back away, when the guy (not-Steve) unfolded the top of the bag and peeked inside. “Oh, man. I do appreciate this. Sorry ‘bout that. Hazards of communal living, I guess.” 

“No—no problem,” Bucky mumbled. 

Not-Steve cocked his head. Bucky felt _assessed_. He’d washed his face today, and put on a clean shirt, and everything. “I’d offer you a beer for your trouble, but…” 

Bucky waved this away. “Well. Uh. Enjoy.” 

Bucky froze. 

Not-Steve froze. 

He rewound what he’d just said. Oh, fuck. 

Bucky dipped his chin and fled. 

Bucky spent the rest of Saturday and most of Sunday hiding under his weighted blanket. It seemed like the most appropriate response. 

_Enjoy_?! 

He was going to have to move, lease and pandemic be damned. 

Somehow time went on. He went to class on Monday and tried to ignore… was that thumping? Had they progressed to some sort of bed-thumping movements? 

Bucky was standing in front of his fridge, wondering if a whole round of goat cheese could count as dinner, when there was a knock on the door. He ignored it; it was probably a delivery person, and they’d leave the package outside and go. Did he have any packages en route? He could barely keep track these days. It seemed likely. Or least possible. 

There was another knock, gentler. 

Huh. 

Bucky grabbed a mask from the key hooks on the wall and opened the door. 

It was the blond from the laundry room—Steve—holding a letter. 

“Uh, hi,” Bucky said, in what was hopefully a normal tone of voice that conveyed a well-adjusted individual, and not someone who was wondering whether the little black briefs were Steve’s or his hot boyfriend’s. 

“Hey, uh, James,” said Steve, glancing down at the letter. “This got put in our mailbox by mistake. It looks—well, uh medical, so I didn’t want to just leave it out.” 

Bucky took the letter, which from the VA medical center handling his prosthetic PT. “Thanks.” 

“Just returning the favor,” said Steve. And then. 

And then. 

He winked. Bucky really was not getting enough oxygen into his lungs, and he couldn’t even blame his mask. 

“We were thinking—Sam and I, you know, you met Sam this weekend—since we’re neighbors and all, we should exchange numbers. There are some tenants’ rights things I’ve got in mind,” Steve continued. 

_Rights_ , right. Just, totally normal community organization things happening here. 

“Sure, yeah, let me…” Bucky backed into his kitchen, put the envelope on his counter, and grabbed his phone. 

They recited their own numbers. No exchange of phones, these days. 

“Are you here by yourself?” Steve asked. It didn’t even sound creepy. 

“Yeah,” said Bucky. 

“That must be tough.” Somehow, his voice wasn’t pitying. It was… curious, but the buy-you-a-drink, there’s-an-empty-corner kind of curious. That curving kind of curious, that wrapped you up with each syllable and left you breathless. Thoroughly seduced. 

Obviously months of isolation were getting to Bucky’s brain. Hallucinations! Fantasies disrupting his interpretation of reality! His Friday therapist appointment seemed so far away. 

“Sometimes,” said Bucky. “I’m taking classes, and I work a bit, so I’ve got my routine and…” He cleared his throat. “Yeah, my routine and everything.” 

Steve nodded. “I hear you. Sam and I have found keeping a routine to be really important. For us, and our relationship, and everything.” 

Bucky almost swallowed his own tongue. “That’s! Great!” The words came out in a register he hadn’t achieved since he was sixteen and his voice was breaking every other sentence. 

“I’m so lucky,” Steve continued. 

“Uh-huh,” said Bucky without thinking. “I mean…” 

Steve laughed. “He is a looker, isn’t he?” 

Bucky held his hands up. “I’m sure he has lots of other good assets. QUALITIES.” 

“Oh, for sure. Sometimes I’m like, is it really fair to keep him to myself? Maybe not.” 

Bucky literally could not thing of a single thing to say to that. 

After a few seconds, Steve seemed to realized this, because he said, “Anyway, you’ve got your letter now, and I’ve got your number. Have a good night.” 

“Ngh,” said Bucky. 

Later that night, alone in his bed, staring at the darkness toward where he knew, ten feet up, Steve and Sam were cuddled close—god, this was why it was better to not know your neighbors. When they had names and smiles and good-smelling laundry softener, it was just too much. 

“TENANTS’. RIGHTS,” he told himself forcefully. 

When he fell asleep, he dreamed of a sit-in in the laundry room. A blurry-faced white man stood in for the super, dancing around as he tried to stomp on the centipedes. Sam and Steve sat together on top of the washers, masks off. Bucky had had pandemic anxiety dreams before, ones where he wasn’t wearing a mask and knew he should be, but this one felt different. He felt calm and safe. When he looked down at himself, he was wearing only briefs. 

He woke up, panting. 

He was _absolutely_ going to have to move.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I live in hell for a precise half-hour a day and that's all I have to say about the matter. Writing this crack fic has perhaps been the only pure joy of August? Off to listen to betty and contemplate the case for emotional damages.

Bucky made himself hover on the stoop on Tuesday. It was hot and muggy, typical for summer in D.C., and he longed for his air-conditioned studio. But no: after the last few days, he could picture their sex _so much better_ , which made the idea of sitting inside with his music doing fuck-all to cover the thumping _so much worse_. 

**Steve (12:27 PM):** We’re thinking of you today! Ok if I give Sam your number? 

Bucky blinked down at his phone. Apparently it was safe to go inside now. Once he was cooling down—lying flat on his kitchen’s crappy tile—he replied. 

**Bucky (12:31 PM):** [thumbs-up emoji] 

On Wednesday, of course, he had no choice. Bed creaking was possibly the _worst_ soundtrack for a discussion on post-World War I America. He hoped his professor didn’t care that he was always a more active participant after the first half hour of class. He just couldn’t risk taking himself off mute until they were… you know. Done. 

On Thursday, his supervisor let them know he was running “a few minutes behind,” whatever _that_ meant, so Bucky didn’t dare to escape outside. Instead, he put on Fall Out Boy, not even bothering with his headphones, and turned the volume way, way, WAY up. 

“WHY DON’T YOU SHOW ME A LITTLE BIT OF SPINE / YOU’VE BEEN SAVING FOR HIS MATTRESS, LOVE.” When in doubt, trust Pete Wentz. 

**Steve (12:43 PM):** Not sure what your class/work/etc. schedule is these days, but sometimes Sam and I watch a film in the afternoon. You up for a Netflix Party some time? 

They had a _post-sex film routine_. Ugh, it was probably like, sex, shower, snuggle. 

**Bucky (12:59 PM):** I don’t want to interrupt whatever routine you’ve got going with Sam… 

**Steve (1:01 PM):** Not an interruption, an invitation!

**Bucky (1:15 PM):** I’m working now, but I’m free Fridays a bit after 1. 

**Steve (1:18 PM):** It’s a date! 

**Sam (1:19 PM):** I know Steve’s texting you about timing. You pick the film. Steve loves all genres except for male-led comedies. I will not watch anything made before 1990, fyi

**Bucky (2:47 PM):** [thumbs-up emoji] 

In therapy on Friday, Bucky deliberately avoided mentioning Steve and Sam, even though it was the kind of social connection his therapist would be interested in discussing. Bucky could just _not_ discuss them while listening to their bed creak steadily away. 

When his therapy session ended, there were new messages waiting, in a new group chat. 

**Steve (12:49 PM):** Ready when you are! :) 

**Sam (12:50 PM):** Call us when you’re ready so we don’t have to type through the whole thing 

Bucky went to the bathroom. He filled up his water bottle. He wrote a quick journal entry, intentions for the week ahead. For a while—even after he was accustomed to the loss of his arm—therapy would more or less take him out for the whole rest of the day. Fifty minutes of baring your soul and all the weird coping mechanisms you’d developed and weren’t supposed to use anymore—it took a lot out of a guy. Journaling helped him to not lose track of what they’d discussed, which he often did, by the time it was Wednesday and he hadn’t slept and was eating ice cream out of the carton just for the calories. Plus, he’d discovered it was a good way to sort of close out that part of the day. He could do things on Friday afternoons, now, even if those things were just watching a movie with his upstairs neighbors. 

At 1:05, Bucky called Steve. 

“Hey,” said Steve. 

“I’m jealous,” said Sam, clearly on speakerphone. “Why’d you call him and not me, baby?” 

“I’ll call you next time,” said Bucky. He was about to walk it back—they hadn’t even started and he was already assuming a next time—but Sam made a pleased noise and Steve huffed, fond, so he bit his lip instead of saying anything else. 

And somehow… it was way less awkward than he thought it’d be. There were stretches of time when they didn’t say anything at all, and Bucky didn’t feel pressured to fill the silence. Sam’s laugh was infectious, even through the phone. Steve translated a bit of French there wasn’t captioning for. It felt _so_ good to talk to people again—casually, not for work or class, and his face could _rest_ instead of trying to look hyper-engaged on Zoom. Bucky curled his blanket tighter around his shoulders. He wished he were sitting between them, maybe his head on Steve’s chest, his hand resting on Sam’s thigh. But this was something, and it was good. 

They texted throughout the weekend. Bucky’s good hand cramped, and he finally had to learn how to use the speech-to-text function. Sam and Steve didn’t seem to mind the many resulting errors. 

His American History class was taking a stretch break when his phone lit up on the desk. 

**Sam (12:35 PM):** You’ve been pretty safe, right? 

Bucky stared at the screen. He’d gone into the military after one disastrous semester at college, but it’d been disastrous in terms of juggling his academics and alcoholic father, not STI acquisition. He’d stayed away from the sexual politics within the military, more or less. And after the military, it’d taken him a while to want to take his shirt off in front of anybody. 

So, yeah, he’d been pretty safe. 

**Steve (12:36 PM):** Not to be creepy! But I work from the windowsill, so I see pretty much everyone’s comings/goings. Don’t see you much. 

_Right_. Pandemic-safe. 

**Bucky (12:38 PM):** I was kind of a homebody even before. This was a nice excuse for grocery delivery. 

**Bucky (12:39 PM):** Pretty sure I can count the number of times I’ve been outside the apartment for something other than a run on one hand since it all started 

**Bucky (12:40 PM):** That was a joke

**Bucky (12:41 PM):** But also true 

**Sam (12:42 PM):** We got you man! We’ve been really careful too. Steve had pneumonia a few times as a kid so it’s basically quarantine all the time around here 

_Oh, shit_ , Bucky thought. 

**Steve (12:43 PM):** But we feel good about you! What do you say we make a pod? 

“And we’re back!” His professor announced. “I’m going to put you into breakout groups. It’s everyone’s favorite day, I know. Let’s talk about how the Roaring 20s set the stage for the Great Depression. Be gentle with each other!” 

**Bucky (12:44 PM):** I’m in class rn but 

**Bucky (12:44 PM):** I’d be into that 

**Bucky (12:45 PM):** if you really want 

**Steve (12:45 PM):** We really want! 

**Sam (12:45 PM):** Don’t let us distract you! 

_I need a drink_ , thought Bucky. 

On Tuesday morning, they invited him for lunch at 1 o’clock. Bucky thought there was a sliver of chance that meant they would reschedule their nooner, but—nope. It was raining, so he couldn’t even brood on the stoop. 

“I’LL STOP WEARING BLACK WHEN THEY MAKE A DARKER COLOR,” Fall Out Boy promised, loud in the bedroom around Bucky, but still not as loud as the creaking in the one above him. 

At quarter-to, Bucky changed out of his pajamas into a plain green t-shirt. He thought about putting on jeans for the first time in months, then decided against it. Steve and Sam had already seen him in his sweatpants. He wasn’t going to inflict jeans on himself just because he was sharing a meal with near-strangers. Plus, the new yoga pants he’d ordered did nice things for his ass. 

He brought his phone, keys, mask in case there was anybody else on the stairs, and pan of brownies he’d baked that morning. When he reached the landing, they were waiting for him. 

Sam said, “Brownies!” 

Steve said, “James, get in.” 

Bucky stopped, confused, then started laughing. “It’s Bucky, actually. You just saw my mail that one time but, uh, yeah, I go by Bucky. Nickname of middle a name thing, don’t ask.” 

“Bucky, got it,” said Sam. “Bring those blue eyes right inside.” 

Bucky went. 

Steve’s hair was damp, and his cheeks were flushed. Bucky focused hard on leaving his shoes by the door as instructed. 

The layout of their studio was the same, although theirs felt a little more cramped—two people’s stuff, after all. Still, it was a little _Twilight Zone_ to notice that their toaster was on the kitchen windowsill, whereas Bucky just kept his on the counter by the microwave, and they had a slow cooker where Bucky kept his nice knife set. 

After Bucky had set his stuff down, Sam gave him another one of those assessing looks. “You want a hug?” 

Normally, Bucky would not hug someone he’d only spoken to once. But now that a hug had been offered, Bucky thought he might die if he didn’t accept. He nodded, words caught in his throat. 

“C’mere,” said Sam, even as he walked toward Bucky. 

Sam folded Bucky into his arms, and Bucky just—clung. He wasn’t sure how long he was supposed to hold on, but Sam wasn’t letting go. In fact, Sam was stroking his back with one hand, his other hand resting against Bucky’s flesh arm. It felt so fucking good. 

“My turn,” said Steve. He grasped Bucky’s shoulder, and Bucky pivoted into him, like they were dancing. Steve wrapped him in a bear hug. Bucky wasn’t a small man, but he ducked his head so he could rest his cheek against Steve. 

“Thank you,” he managed, after what had to have been a solid two minutes. 

“We’re all human,” said Steve, stepping back. “We’ve all got needs.” 

They sat around the little kitchen table—Sam on a step stool, because they only had two chairs—and everything seemed to snap into place. Why hadn’t they been doing this forever? Surely they’d already been doing this forever. 

“So, going through a Fall Out Boy phase, huh? Or did you never leave it?” Sam asked. He licked a bit of brownie from his fingers. Bucky’s eyes tracked the movement, that flick of tongue. 

“What?” Bucky said, distracted. 

“Past couple of weeks. We’ve been hearing you. It’s not quite our usual, but we like it. Keep it up, if you want,” said Steve. 

Oh god. Of course they could hear his music, when he stopped bothering with headphones and really turned the volume up. Wasn’t that how the whole issue started? 

Bucky meant to say something like, _did you make it to a concert, pre-pandemic?_ Or even, _what’s your usual?_ but what came out was, “So you discovered the thin walls here. Well. Ceilings. Floors.” 

Were they walls, existentially? 

Sam folded his hands on the table. “Thin… ceilings.” 

“Fuck,” said Bucky. Or—god, could he have picked a different swear word? “Um.” He looked at their kitchen ceiling. There was a weird water stain on it, kind of shaped like Louisiana. 

“So this is either going to be way easier or way harder than I thought,” said Steve. 

Bucky wished for Louisiana to come crashing down on him. “I swear to God, I did not mean to—I have been trying very, very hard not to—if you have a spare pair of noise-cancelling headphones I will _very happily_ borrow them—I’ve got class and this stupid weekly work meeting and _therapy_ so I just. Noon is _literally the worst time for me_.” 

“Oh, fuck,” said Sam. “I gotta be honest, I do not know whether to laugh or really, really apologize here. That is probably, uh, not what you want to be hearing when you’re… doing all of those things.” 

“I’m happy for you,” Bucky blurted. “But, um. Not at noon. I kind of hate you guys at noon.” 

“Noted,” said Steve, his tone grave. “And Tuesdays?” 

“My one free noon. But I can’t really, you know, _leave_ , so. Fall Out Boy.” 

“We’ve enjoyed it,” Steve said. He looked at Bucky through his lashes. “Almost like you’re with us.” 

Bucky’s brain whited out. Sam hit Steve on the arm. 

“What my boyfriend is trying to say is that… we think you’re hot, and we started talking to each other about maybe inviting you for a threesome. And then we started talking to you and we think you’re pretty cool, so maybe you want to try dating? In the safety of our identical studios. Plus sex is still on the table, although I guess not at noon. So you stop hating us.” 

“And if this is weird, then we’re really sorry, and we’ll, uh, find some mutually agreed upon time that won’t disturb you,” Steve added. 

Holy _shit_. 

“I’ll share my Google calendar with you,” said Bucky. “Also…” He let his lips curl into a smirk. “I am owed _so_ many orgasms at this point. I have been fucking traumatized.” 

“C’mere, darling,” said Steve. “Let me just get started on fixing that.” 

“ _You_?” said Sam. “You think _you_ get to start with him? I don’t think so.” Sam reached over and grabbed Bucky’s hand. “Want to check out Steve’s bed for yourself?” 

“Movie after?” Bucky asked, hesitating. He was really too old, too messy-but-trying, to go for friends-with-benefits anymore. 

“Oh yeah, you’re not getting out of the movie,” said Steve. He stood up and circled the table, then bent to kiss the back of Bucky’s neck. 

“That’s cheating,” said Sam. He lifted Bucky’s hand to his mouth and kissed the tip of each finger. 

“You’re slow,” said Steve. 

“Someone get me to this bed,” said Bucky. 

They stumbled around the half-wall separating the kitchen from the bedroom area, hands everywhere, Sam’s lips against his. Bucky extracted himself with difficulty, so he could shrug off his shirt and detach his prosthetic. 

“Useful for daily living shit. Not nice for sex,” he said, panting.

“We might need to work on your definition of ‘daily living,” Sam purred, then pounced, tipping him backwards onto the bed. 

Steve scrambled behind them, wrapping his arms around Bucky’s bare chest. “Should I have put some mood music on?” he whispered, biting at Bucky’s ear. “I’m thinking… ‘Sugar, We’re Goin’ Down?’” 

“Fuck. You,” Bucky gasped. 

“Later, sweetheart,” Steve said. 

  


Steve, as it turned out, really did prefer to have sex regularly scheduled, and scheduled sex with Steve and Sam had at least five times as much spark as any spontaneous sex Bucky had ever had. Still, for a while, Bucky’s work and sleep schedule didn’t allow them to use the same time slot every day. Then Steve suggested Bucky just sleep over every night, turning his first-floor studio basically into an office. Bucky’s sleep schedule still wasn’t perfect, but there was something about the appeal of morning sex to encourage dreaming. 

Except for Tuesdays, of course. 

On Tuesdays, the sex was always at noon. 

And now that Bucky was involved, he could set his watch by it.


End file.
